In Twain
by Maid Of Many Names
Summary: Harry’s nightmares are not his own. How can one tame demons that belong to another?
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: In Twain

AUTHOR: Maid Of Many Names

RATING: R (adult themes)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fanfic takes place in the summer holiday between 6th and 7th year. There are four parts to this story.

SUMMARY: Harry's nightmares are not his own. How can one tame demons that belong to another?

**Part 1**

Screams had died to choked sobs. Hermione found the sounds of Harry's weeping harder to bear than the wails previously erupting from his throat. The disturbance was a nightly ritual that became no less distressing for its familiarity. Curled up in her own bed, she wished for something more substantial to cling to than her own bed sheets. Mrs Weasley would put on a pot of hot cocoa downstairs once she had Harry settled again but for once Hermione did not feel in the mood to be soothed by hot milky beverages. Not that it had done much to ease her mind during the nights past. She was used to subduing her troubles with vellum, parchment and worn leather. She dissected her fears with wisdom painted in ink. Under that weight of knowledge, they would bow and be broken, loosing the power to frighten her. Unfortunately, it was not her inner demons that required soothing. They weren't even Harry's.

With the vague hope that company would help her find some measure of peace, Hermione slipped out of bed. She couldn't seem to linger amid flesh warmed linens knowing that Harry desperately pursued restful slumber that would not come. If he managed to drift into sleep once more, he would only wake again later. Hermione had guessed that Harry barely had three hours of sleep a night. With a heavy sigh, Hermione grabbed her wand. With the ease of long familiarity with the wooden length, she cast a variant of the 'lumos' spell. Soft light sprang into being, matching the glow of pleasure she felt at finally being of age and able to use magic outside of Hogwarts.

On bare feet, Hermione padded towards the kitchen. The sound of voices made her pause at the door. Swiftly she ended her spell and remained motionless, poised to overhear what she could. She, Harry and Ron might have hit their majority according to the Wizarding world but that hadn't stopped Dumbledore and the rest of the Order from excluding them in the name of protecting them. Hermione might have been more understanding if they hadn't been thrust into danger every year they had attended Hogwarts. To her surprise it was Dumbledore's voice that rose and fell in concert with Mrs Weasley's. With a frown, Hermione wondered if Mrs Weasley had flood the headmaster. To Hermione's knowledge Dumbledore hadn't been at Grimmauld place for several days.

"This can't go on, Albus!" Mrs Weasley spoke up. "The poor dear hasn't had a decent night's rest in months! His nightmares are only getting worse."

"You are correct but Severus is doing all he can. Modifications to Dreamless Sleep must be done carefully."

"Then what should we do? You said occlumancy would stop You-Know-Who from getting into Harry's mind."

"I'm afraid I have no more answers than those I've already given you, Molly. The occlumancy was successful in partially blocking the link. It is my belief that once Harry mastered occlumancy, it allowed the subconscious aspect to dominate the link. Sadly occlumancy can only protect the conscious mind."

"If the occlumancy was successful, then why is the poor boy in worse shape than before!" Molly Weasley demanded.

"What resides in Voldemort's subconscious would be enough to give the whole wizarding world nightmares," Dumbledore sighed.

When the conversation drifted to Mrs Weasley bewailing Harry's travails, Hermione slipped away, aimlessly wandering the darkened house. Her mind struggled with what she heard. Harry had always had bad nightmares. Neither she nor Ron found that surprising. When Harry's nightmares became more frequent, they had assumed it was due to the burdens Harry struggled with. Finally when they had realized it was something else, Dumbledore had spoken to them. He had told them about the connection and they had believed Dumbledore when he'd said that he could stop it.

Hidden by the shadows of the darkened house, Hermione bit her lip in dismay. Did this mean that Dumbledore could do nothing? That thought sent ice forming in her stomach. Harry couldn't continue like this. He was already too close to giving up entirely. Hermione knew full well that sleep deprivation would only push Harry closer to the edge. Something had to be done!

Hermione didn't doubt that Professor Snape was doing everything he could. He might hate Harry but he took his duties as an Order member and professor seriously. What bothered Hermione was that Dreamless Sleep, no matter how modified, wasn't a permanent solution. People not only needed to dream but Dreamless Sleep was poisonous if taken long-term. If Dumbledore's hopes were pinned on Dreamless Sleep, then did it really mean that there was no other way to block Voldemort?

She refused to believe that. It was well known the Dumbledore was adamant about not using the Dark Arts. Nor did he permit his fellow Order members to use them. The only exception was Professor Snape who used use Dark Magic to insure his position of spy in Voldemort's circle.

Dumbledore's convictions against using the Dark Arts were something that Hermione had once admired. It was only after what happened in the Department of Mysteries, did Hermione realize what that could mean. Against those that had far more in their arsenal than a simple stupefy, she had been as helpless and as ignorant as a first year. It had been an experience that was in equal measures terrifying and humiliating. She refused to be so weak and helpless ever again. That summer she had begun her voyage into the realm of all things Dark. Whenever her courage began to fail or her doubts pile up, all she had to do was finger the long scar that wove its way across her abdomen. Ridged and pink, the scar tissue would forever adorn her body.

In secret, she devoured every book on the Dark Arts she could find. Thankfully, Knockturn Alley sold such things in abundance. She had read everything from the moldering tomes of ancient lore, to ill-printed manuscripts produced by underground publishing houses. Back at Hogwarts, she had plundered the Restricted Section's contents where she found more than she could ever have imagined. Hermione Granger, mudblood Gryffindor and Hogwarts' resident bookworm was going into her seventh year, but knew more about the Dark Arts than most wizards or witches twice her age.

Not that she would presume to know everything. Compared to some she was a mere dabbler. While she knew a great deal, she had not practiced all she had learned. Much of her knowledge would forever remain theory. Having seen what the Dark Arts could do to a person, Hermione preferred to keep it that way. Humility and fear helped to cultivate the ever essential barrier between herself and the seductive possibilities that the Dark Arts offered. So she remained all she had been with the small addition of being a fledgling Dark Witch.

All that experience delving into the forbidden would now be put to good use. Compared to her previous misdeeds, what she was about to do was nothing. By resolutely holding onto that justification, Hermione dulled the vague sense of guilt that persisted. Her goal decided, Hermione made her way to the double doors that she had so often looked at with unrepentant longing. Behind those door was the Black Library.

When she had first arrived at Grimmauld Place, Hermione had been banned from entering the library with the rest of the 'children'. That was yet again another prohibition that hadn't been lifted upon reaching majority. According to Dumbledore it was too dangerous. Hermione was only slightly mollified by the fact that even the other Order members weren't allowed free access. Being banned from entering the library with the rest of the 'children' was possibly the worst torment someone could have devised for her. Indeed she had immediately begun crafting plans to get into the library but had not actually placed those plans in motion. She had not been willing to risk breaking the wards for sheer curiosity's sake. For Harry, she would.

"Okay, Bill, lets see if you learned anything playing Indiana Jones in Egypt," Hermione murmured.

It had been Bill Weasley that had erected the wards around the library. As there were so many other more important demands on Dumbledore's time, it had been decided that the collection hadn't warranted his personal attention. For Hermione that was fortuitous indeed. Without a doubt the eldest Weasley boy knew his craft but Dumbledore's encyclopedic knowledge of magic and sheer power was another matter entirely.

Wards were not her forte but she had done quit a bit of research into the subject. Hermione had initially wanted to better understand the protections the Order had placed on her house. Then Harry had wanted to know about how the blood based wards on his relative's house worked during his semi-rebellion against Dumbledore in his sixth year. Hermione had found the subject very interesting although she would readily admit there was much she didn't know. Hopefully what she already knew paired with the books she had on the subject would allow her to gain access to the library.

Carefully, Hermione scouted the perimeter of the wards. Her respect for Bill went up a notch as she realized he had warded the whole room and not just the doors. If he hadn't, Hermione might have created her own entrance to the library. With the whole room protected, that wasn't possible. Using her wand as something of a divining rod, Hermione traced the paths of the energy flows that held the wards together. They were seamless and uniform in strength. Having had a taste of Bill's expertise, she would have been disappointed had it been otherwise. Even if she had found a chink in the wards that could be used to break them, Hermione wouldn't have used it. If she destroyed the wards completely, then their absence would alert the Order.

Instead she would have to convince the wards to allow her passage. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she lifted her wand and began.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

Her nightgown was stuck to her body with dried patches of sweat. Hermione's lip curled at the evidence of her labor. As disgusting as she felt, it was worth it. The wards were finally open to her after several weeks of labor. Getting past the wards had been more of a challenge that she'd expected. Bill had used some very esoteric methods mixed with just enough ingenuity to render most standard techniques of ward breaking useless. As this was not a subject that Hermione had studied in great depth, it had taken her far longer than she had anticipated. This was because she checked and double checked each prospective step for fear of triggering the wards. Although part of her chafed at the delay, the puzzle the wards presented had been just the thing she needed to escape Harry's distressing decline.

She and Ron had both devised ways to blot out the travesty going on before them. While Hermione had hidden herself in her growing library of books, researching ways to defeat the wards, Ron had buried himself in past issues of Quidditch magazines. Failing that, he had actually volunteered to play guinea pig for the twins. Hermione shook her head. If she hadn't been convinced that her plan was right before, then she was now.

Harry's condition had deteriorated far faster than anyone had anticipated. He had become a virtual zombie. He fumbled and shuffled through the house, his eyes burning eerily bright within the dark circles that framed them. The line between sleeping and waking had blurred. Visions and night terrors preyed on him in daydreams as well as in nightmares. Snape had been somewhat successful with his modified Dreamless Sleep. Every four days the modified version allowed Harry a precious five hours of peaceful rest. It was not enough.

Every time Dumbledore came to Grimmauld Place, Hermione had to restrain herself from flinging herself at him to beg him to do something. Thankfully, Mrs Weasley took it upon herself to do just that. Dumbledore's words of reassurance fell flat. He was trying, Hermione knew that. He had tried all manner of spell, ward and even a few curses to stop Harry's pain.

The old wizard wore his failure in the stoop of his shoulders and the lack of a twinkle in his eyes. Still, Hermione felt the stir of resentment in her heart. Dumbledore had seen the extent of Harry's pain, yet he refused to even consider searching for a Dark solution. The connection between Harry and Voldemort had been created through the Dark Arts. It made perfect sense that the solution to blocking it would be found in the Dark Arts. But no, Albus Dumbledore would never 'sully' himself in such a fashion. Hermione was beginning to believe that he'd see Harry dead for the sake of his precious morals.

A creak sounding behind her sent Hermione's mind reeling back to the present. Pulse hammering in her ears, she waited for one of the Order to sweep down upon her. When no one immerged from the shadowy hallway behind her, she heaved a sigh. Fresh splotches of sweat stained her nightdress but she was safe. Silently cursing her own nerves and crotchety old houses, Hermione struggled to her feet. Her joints were stiff from sitting on the floor for so long. Her muscles were as contrary as her joints and did not wish to unclench. She felt as though she'd forgotten how to stand, let alone move.

Once she had regained control of her body, Hermione nervously placed her hand on the door knob. As much as she trusted her own work, the wards Bill had erected had hidden some nasty surprises. Still half expecting to sprout boils or be rendered senseless, she swung the door open. Stale air wafted out and over her. It was redolent of parchment, ink and dust; something libraries everywhere had in common. It had the heavy quality that only silence and solitude could give but the familiar scent instantly put her at ease. As she moved forward to stand beside the closest stack, Hermione could feel a low hum of magic radiate from the books. She shivered half with excitement and half with apprehension, as trailed over spines and traced the polished hardwood shelves. Her silent communion was abruptly brought to a halt by a flare of light behind her.

Rendered even more hawkish by the heavy shadows cast by the harsh light, Snape's visage glowered with gargoyle like intensity. He rose with a single elegant movement. For a moment he paused allowing the shadows to frame him before gliding forward. The slow stalk made the hair rise on the back of her neck. Snape radiated a sheer force of personality that few could match. That was what cowed Neville so effectively and although she was loath to admit it, Hermione was not as immune as she would have liked. The Professor's approach sent her stomach into freefall and her heart leaping into her mouth. She had been discovered.

"Bravo, Miss Granger. Congratulations indeed, for meeting my low expectations. How like a Gryffindor to abandon all caution when the goal is in sight."

"P-professor Snape?" Hermione blurted and winced at her less than eloquent reply.

"Did you really think getting past the wards would be so easy? Did you think that the Weasley boy would be the only one to safeguard the library? Pitiful. To think you're lauded as the greatest witch in a century."

"I'm sorry but I was just curious," Hermione replied, struggling to control her expression.

"Really, Miss Granger, given how many misadventures you've participated in, it is shocking that you haven't developed the ability to lie effectively. At least you should have concocted a more believable excuse by now," Snape scoffed. "I am not a fool, Miss Granger. You're here for the Potter boy. Tell me, does he know what you intend to do?"

"No," Hermione whispered, knowing he would read the truth of her words on her face or perhaps even from her mind.

"I don't suppose Precious Potter would approve of his friend pawing through books on the Dark Arts, would he? Then again, this isn't the first time you've played in the Dark, is it?"

Fear oozed through her veins. How did he know? Was Snape going to report her? It was bad enough that he'd found her in the library, let alone somehow guessed at her forays into the Dark Arts. Her panicked mind began to frantically wonder how he found out. Had she somehow betrayed herself? No, no, she had been too careful for that- it had to be a lucky guess. She couldn't let him trap her into betraying herself!

"That's none of your concern, Professor! I did come here because of Harry, your right about that. I know Dumbledore has tried everything but the Dark Arts. Because he doesn't want to get his hands dirty, Harry is-"

"Silence, you foolish little girl! You have no idea of what the Dark Arts can do!"

"I've seen enough," Hermione stubbornly defended.

"If you had, then you would respect Dumbledore's refusal to use them. As ignorant as you are, it is true that there is nothing more Dumbledore can do. Maybe the solution to Potter's current difficulties does lie with the Dark."

"Then why haven't you done something?" Hermione burst out in frustration.

"I hold no love for Potter but if I was free to do so, I would already be searching for a way to block the connection."

Hermione's eyes widened at that. If he was 'free' to do so? That implied he was being forced into inaction. Snape's eyes were cold and verging on scornful as she frantically searched them for any indication that what she was considering was true. That he quickly averted his gaze told her everything she needed to know.

Fueled by her small revelation, Hermione felt her mind begin to spin. Snape had been Dumbledore's spy for many years. Again and again Snape proved his himself but in the early days, before trust had been built... Hermione shivered as she wondered just what Dumbledore might have demanded in return for his testimony at Snape's trial. Or what he might have required to ensure the loyalty of his newest spy. Her bright and shiny faith in Dumbledore had long since tarnished but this further glimpse into the man made her skin crawl. It served to remind Hermione that sometimes there was a very fine line between Dark and Light.

"And if you were to research such a thing, where would you start?"

This time black eyes flickered with something that might have vaguely approximated approval.

"If I was considering such research, then coercive magical bonds would be a good place to start. Occulumancy, curse scars and curses affecting mental functions would also be useful to learn more about."

"Anything else?"

"I would remember to check for secondary wards," Snape sniffed and then swept out of the library.

With stunned amazement, Hermione stared into the shadows that Professor Snape had vanished into. It was so like the professor to have the last word. As childish as Snape's actions were, her face was still burning with anger and embarrassment from his parting dig. When she had recovered from her fit of pique, she noticed the stack of books beside the chair the professor had been sitting in. Not quite believing what she saw, Hermione began to sort through the books. Each one was on the topics the professor had mentioned. Deciding it would be better not to question it, she cracked open the first book.

Desperation was eating away at her nerves like acid. Two weeks had passed since she had opened the wards. Hermione had read everything Professor Snape had left for her and then launched into her own campaign of ransacking the stacks for further material. Everything she read lead to dead ends or created ever more complicated questions she couldn't answer. Perhaps most alarming was that Hermione was painfully close to exhausting what resources the Black Library had to offer. The truth was that Hermione was beginning to doubt that any library had what she needed.

Curse scars were very rare. Most spells simply weren't strong enough to linger in such a way. Usually a spell manifested itself for only a short duration. For example, a slashing curse cut the flesh but the curse itself ended once the damage was done. No remains of the curse lingered in the wound. Even those curses that had a more prolonged existence faded as their purpose was fulfilled or as the body and aura renewed and repaired itself. What examples of curse scars Hermione had found, were interesting but nothing at all like what Harry experienced. Harry was, after all, the only one to survive a full blown Avada Kedavra. It was a curse cast by one of the most powerful Dark Lords in history, no less. Once again, Harry's uniqueness was the cause of his suffering.

Her research into coercive spells was a little more successful. There were several spells that could accomplish similar things to what Harry was experiencing. Hermione had absorbed everything she could on the different levels these spells worked on and which parts of the mind were targeted. From her research she could see many parallels between that family of spells and Harry's experiences. Sadly, the spells she read about were nullified with a simple counter-curse. That would never work for Harry.

The other topics, both those suggested by Professor Snape and those she discovered on her own, were equally frustrating in their lack of results. With days passing ever so quickly, Hermione had set aside more and more time to read, something she had previously been careful to moderate for fear it might seem suspicious. To hide the long hours she was spending on reading, she had even purposefully argued with Ron. Feigning teenage indignation, she shut herself in her room where she had stored several volumes from the library. Despite her best efforts she'd found nothing. The dread that there might not be a solution was beginning to haunt Hermione's every waking moment. Nothing she had found gave her a way to turn off the connection.

Hermione scrubbed at eyes that were beginning to fill with tears. Her bed was covered with carefully organized piles of notes. They stood as mute testament to how hard she had worked and how impossible her task seemed. Hermione bit her lip, she couldn't think like that. She couldn't give up when Harry was depending on her. Why couldn't she find a way to block the wretched connection? Sagging back into her pillows, Hermione forced herself to calm down and look objectively at the problem.

Everything Dumbledore had tried and everything she had researched, had been aimed at finding something that would block the connection. Blocking the connection had seemed the logical solution. It would certainly be the best solution for Harry. Unfortunately, those efforts had failed. There just wasn't anything that work for a curse scar of Harry's magnitude. Hermione paused. The solution seemed logical and they had done their best to find its solution but she was beginning to wonder if that single-minded focus had blinded them to another solution.

Stimuli from Voldemort's mind were essentially flooding Harry's. If it was impossible to block the flood, could it be diverted?

Her hope revived on shaky wings, Hermione began tearing through her notes. Finding the pages she began to reread. The wizarding world held a rather odd mishmash of ideas about the human mind. They were often more focused on the results of using magic than they were in understanding why. Indeed, muggle scientists were further along in many ways. For all their lack of knowledge, Hermione couldn't argue that the spells, curses and potions she'd read about were certainly affective. Some were so effective that it was frightening. There were far more subtle curses than simply the Imperious.

Once she had gained a thorough overview of mind controlling magic, she had given up reading about specific spells. As varied as the spells were they couldn't block Harry's connection and so she'd ruled it unnecessary to read further. Now she was hoping they might hold the answer. Unfortunately, the books she needed weren't the ones she'd secreted away in her room. As it was still early afternoon, she would have a long wait until the Order left or retired for the night.

Hours passed and Hermione could barely contain her nervous energy. Again and again she rifled through the books and notes she had on hand. She must have driven Crookshanks mad as he pointedly left after she started pacing the floor. Dinner had been agony. Most of it passed in a blur but Hermione forced herself to sulk and glare at Ron to maintain her cover. All the while she felt guilty for the hurt and lack of comprehension on Ron's face and the evil eyes sent her way by the twins and Ginny. Harry was oblivious to it, far too sunken into his private hell to notice anything around him. Mrs Weasley had even resorted to feeding him like a toddler. When the few Order members present at Grimmauld Place during the day left, Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs Weasley and the others had gone to sleep an hour ago.

The library was just as she left it. Barely sparing a glance to the shelves she had once stared at with hunger, Hermione immediately began pulling books from the shelves. She placed the books on the desk that sat in the corner. The desk was not immediately in view, if by chance, someone should enter the library. Hermione hoped that if someone did intrude that she would have time to conceal herself and her books.

So immersed in the spellbooks Hermione almost fell to the floor when a hand grasped her shoulder. Stomach churning with her fright, she stumbled around, legs knocking against her chair to face the person who had disturbed her. The dour and always disapproving features of Professor Snape made Hermione flush in embarrassment. Having him catch her unawares twice was the beginning of a trend Hermione couldn't help but dislike. She was certain that he frightened ten years of her life away every time. The professor with drew his hand and crossed his arms over his chest. His raised eyebrow was all he graced her with.

"Professor Snape? Is there a problem with the wards?" Hermione asked.

"If you were so foolish as to disturb the wards after all this time, it would be on your own head. I simply wish to be informed of your progress."

From his tone, he demanded progress and yet expected her to have failed. Herminone's pride smarted but she clenched her jaw closed. As much as she wished to argue that she was doing perfectly well, she couldn't. Not only was she only able to research because of his good will, in all honesty, her progress was pitiful. She had expected to find a solution by now. The inherent arrogance of that assumption made Hermione want to cringe.

"I haven't found anything to block the connection," Hermione began. "I don't think that I will."

"So you're giving up?" Snape sneered in a tone that suggested that he wasn't surprised.

"Not exactly."

"What do you mean, not exactly?" the man snapped irritably.

"Nothing I've found will break the connection between Harry and Voldemort but... maybe that's the problem. Everyone has been so focused on breaking the connection, I don't think anyone has considered another solution."

The potions professor was silent for a moment. His already thin lips compressed into a determined line. Hermione suddenly regretted telling him her theory. She was grateful for his help but that didn't mean Hermione felt at ease with him. That was clearly the way he liked it.

"Explain, Miss Granger."

"I don't even know if it is possible yet," Hermione cautioned and Snape impatiently gestured for her to continue. "If we can't block off the connection, then it might be possible to direct it else where."

"Have you ever considered a career in the mediwizardry, Miss Granger?" Snape asked.

"Mediwizardry, sir?" Hermione asked a little bewildered by the sudden change of subject.

"Yes. You might find it useful to do some research into the field, particularly the mental disciplines used by mediwizards. To better understand your career options, of course."

"I'm sure it will be most educational, sir," Hermione replied dryly.

"I might even have a book you would find enlightening."

With his usual dramatic flair, Snape exited the library. A few moments later Hermione heard the front door open and then close. Snape's not-so-subtle suggestion had her somewhat confused but Hermione did not doubt that it made perfect sense to the potions master. He was not the kind of man to throw out useless suggestions or lead her on a wild goose chase with so much at stake. Not quite certain that Snape intended to return that night, Hermione began searching the Black library for texts on mediwizardry.

Surprisingly the library held quite a few books on the subject. This sent a chill up Hermione's spine. The Black family hardly had an interest in healing and Hermione was certain the philosophy regarding their presence in the collection, was something along the lines of 'all the better to torture you with, my dear'. Hermione felt more than a little satisfaction at being able to use them for their intended purpose. It was remarkably similar to the petty satisfaction she felt in 'defiling' the Most Noble House Of Black with her mudblood presence. Not that it was something she dwelt on... much.

She was flipping through a book on mental disorders when Snape returned to the library. Hermione was thankful that this time she had heard the swish of his robes. The large volume he extended without preamble lacked any markings that hinted at its contents. It was old, she could tell that much from the worn leather cover.

"This book is one of its kind and very previous to my line. It holds the work of one of my ancestors. He was very interested about the mental maladies that afflict wizardkind. Return it to me in pristine condition."

Snape did not need to threaten. It was all there in his eyes. While Hermione was aware of how much trust Snape had placed in her, she couldn't help but feel a little resentful. She would never harm a book! Hermione managed to mumble out an appropriate reply but her focus was on the tome the potions master had handed her.

"I'm sure you will find the appropriate diagnostic spells in the texts you've already collected. The rest you'll have to do yourself."

The meaningful stare made Hermione swallow hard. The potion master's white knuckled fists, told her that he was pushing the limits of what he could tell her or help her with. She nodded and he stalked out of the library. Hermione's previous concerns about the headmaster returned with vengeance. Just how far would Dumbledore go? Little resolved itself from the chaotic jumble of her doubts.

Resolutely, Hermione opened the large book and immersed herself into the writings of what seemed to be a madman. It was not exactly a book but rather a journal that detailed the experiments of Serid Snape. Apparently, he had been obsessed with the various manifestations of mental disturbance of both natural and magical origin. To Hermione's horror, his methods were to draw the madness of the target into his own mind. His intention was to refine or create better curses based on his experiences. While Hermione was certain that Serid was mad to begin with, his lunacy only increased as he continued his experiments. Finally the journal petered off into incoherency.

First hand accounts of madness were undeniably interesting but that wasn't what Hermione found herself absorbed by. Instead it was the spell Serid had constructed to absorb the madness of the subject. A connection to the subject's mind was first created, using a standard spell mediwizards used to diagnose and treat certain kinds of curses and mental disorders. Then Serid's curse was cast, essentially lifting the patters of the disorder from the subject's mind into that of the caster.

Serid's curse was a brilliant piece of work but it wasn't what Hermione needed by a long shot. It did, however, point the way. The journal also detailed how Serid had created it, including the complex arithmantical decompositions of elements that made up the curse. Hermione could easily identify the contributing theories and influences but that was about all. She was a gifted student at arithmancy but to alter a spell was graduate level work. With a small spike of annoyance, Hermione wondered since when she was afraid to try something. Hadn't she brewed Polyjuice Potion in second year? That was easily graduate level work. She wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing!

Even if her ego was growing to positively Slytherin proportions.

Hermione felt somewhat disconcerted at how easy it had been to curse Harry into an enforced slumber. She sighed a little. Perhaps she was a little guilty of buying into the whole 'Boy Who Lived' myth. Sometimes it was hard not to when she had seen with her own eyes how many scrapes Harry managed to survive. No matter how you looked at it, he had tremendous luck and some of the abilities to back it up. Thus, when she'd cast the sleep spell on him, Hermione had expected him to jump up and yell 'protego' before the curse could hit. He hadn't.

Now he was locked into sleep, unable to wake from even the most terrifying nightmare. This wasn't a torture that Hermione wanted to inflict on Harry but tonight it was necessary. It had taken nearly a week to complete her work and adapt the spell. She had then spent two nights resting and recuperating before she dared to look her work over. Serid had given her a blueprint and all she had to do was fill in the blanks.

With the Black library at her disposal, she had been able to do just that. Not that it had been easy. She had made calculation after calculation to estimate which spells would mold together the best. Then she had slowly merged them with yet more arithmancy and then spent long hours over dusty Latin dictionaries to fight the best form of incantation. The wand movements had been just as challenging. During the week it had taken, she had slept as little as Harry. Her work was an amazing success, except for one small detail.

The cobbled together spell was a combination of a dark spell and Serid's curse. The Dark Arts spell Hermione had used, was used to usurp control of a subject under the Imperius, from the one who had originally cast the curse. Not only did the spell's underlying construct match up well with Serid's spell but Hermione felt that using a spell specifically used with Unforgivables would give her a better possibility for success. They were closely related and similar in construct. That Dark spell would allow her to grasp the link forged between Harry and Voldemort. Of course, it was the second part of the spell, Serid's curse, that would allow her to wrench the unconscious part of the connection away from Harry.

That is where things became a little complicated. Serid had created his curse to take madness into his own mind. Everything about the curse was directed towards bringing about that specific conclusion. There was no way of changing the recipient unless she wanted to create a spell of her own. That would take months if not years. Harry didn't have that long.

Standing over Harry, her thoughts were no clearer and she still wavered on the brink of making a decision. Hermione had even considered going to Dumbledore. She had told herself that he was a great wizard and surely he could find a way to alter the spell but Hermione remained silent. She doubted he would change his views on the dark arts even when a solution to Harry's pain was within reach. It was also likely that she would be punished severely for dabbling in things that Dumbledore thought better left alone. That left her with a spell she feared to implement.

She had seen how Harry had suffered from the connection with Voldemort. Anyone who took that connection into themselves would suffer just the same. The problem was that Hermione knew only too well the concept of 'acceptable losses'. While that was a theory she had come to accept as a reality of war, being confronted with it when applied to her was another thing. Hermione was now struggling to reconcile what she believed with her instincts of self-preservation.

She had considered finding someone to cast the spell instead of herself. That line of thought hadn't gone far. How could she ask someone to sacrifice themselves if she couldn't find it within herself to do just that? Besides, the spell Hermione had created was untested and could have serious consequences. She knew the risks and she couldn't say that of someone without her intimate knowledge of the spell. She was already stretching her ethics as far as they would go by casting it on Harry who had no opportunity to agree or refuse.

With the risks so heavily outweighing the benefits, Hermione might have even considered not using the spell. Sadly, Hermione didn't have to know the prophecy Harry had hinted at, to guess Harry's survival was essential for the war. Anyone with an ounce of sense would have guessed there was something important about Harry with the way Voldemort was targeting him. As it was, Harry couldn't even hold a coherent conversation, let alone battle Voldemort. If it was Harry who would win the war for them, then she knew what she had to do.

Raising her wand and drawing on all her Gryffindor bravery, Hermione began to cast.

Her knees almost buckled at the strange sensation of Harry's brain functions filled her mind. The mediwizard spell was somewhat disconcerting but Hermione quickly mastered control of it. It was amazing how such a common spell was so absolutely essential to what she intended to do. Unless she could find the connection then it wouldn't matter what spell she cast.

Feeling rather than seeing, Hermione skimmed through Harry's brain functions. She could feel the hum of activity that governed Harry's breathing and unconscious bodily functions. Then her attention drifted to the flurry of activity that told her he was dreaming. There she found something strange. It was cool and tangled through different parts of his mind. Gingerly Hermione followed the threads of this strange presence and found herself pull away from Harry's mind. As she did so, the spell begin to waver. Before the mediwizard spell failed she pulled herself back to where the cool strands touched Harry's mind.

Her stomach filled with butterflies, Hermione once again raised her wand. With practiced movements, she swished, flicked and twirled as she spoke the incantation to her modified spell.

Molly Weasley had become used to the screams that woke her in the night. In some ways it was no different from the twins' early years. They had woken her up nearly every hour of the night. A little Pepperup Potion in the morning and she was fine. Molly only wished that Harry's troubles were so easily solved. The poor dear was so brave but anyone could see he was suffering beyond human endurance. When screams once again broke out in Grimmauld Place, the Weasley matriarch was already out the door and down the hallway before she realized that the screams were far too high in pitch to be Harry's. Her heart started pounding double time as she swung Harry's door open. While the screams might not have belonged to him they were certainly coming from his room.

A cloud of bushy hair fanned the floor, framing the writhing girl. The sounds being ripped from her throat were high and piercing. Thin limbs twitched as muscles clenched and released as if being pulled by an inept puppeteer. Molly fumbled with her wand for the first time in three decades as she cast 'enervate'. To her relief, the spell managed to leave her wand without error. It hit Hermione but still the girl screamed.

In growing panic, Molly ran through her list of mediwizard cures and counter curses. Her repertoire was quite large after dealing with the mishaps of seven mischief making children but nothing she did seemed to help. Seeing that her wand offered no remedy, Molly instead embraced the girl, murmuring comforting things. Slowly, of her own accord, Hermione slowly stopped her thrashing. The screaming had also died down to whimpers. Molly might have thought it was over except for the glassy eyes that gazed out sightlessly. As she watched Hermione curled into a fetal position and seemed to fall into unconsciousness. Molly was hesitant to release the girl but she had to see to Harry. She had been so focused on what was happening to Hermione she hadn't even glanced his way.

To her amazement the boy was sleeping. Not only was he sleeping but it seemed that Harry wasn't plagued by the nightmares that had tormented him. His body was limp and his face no longer clenched in a grimace. Molly fingered her wand with indecision. She wanted to wake Harry and ask him what had happened but this was the first peaceful rest he'd had in weeks. Finally she gathered the covers closer to the boy and took a blanked from the bed and placed it around Hermione.

She had no idea what had happened but the seeping cold of dread had gathered in her heart. Although she'd said nothing, Molly had noticed the hours Hermione had spent in her room, locked away from the rest of the household. This she had attributed to the quarrels Hermione had with Ron and pain of watching Harry's decline. Molly had decided that as long as Hermione appeared for meals she would not say anything. Hermione was the well behaved and reliable sort. Indeed she had relied on the girl to restrain the boys on several occasions. Now Molly was beginning to think that she should have said something. Exactly what Hermione had done, Molly didn't know. She did suspect that it had something to do with Harry and his nightmares. Finally, Molly locked the door and hurried down to the floo.

"Mum, what was all the screaming? That wasn't Harry!" Ron asked as he rubbed his eyes blurrily.

"Go back to bed, Ron. There was just a little accident."

"An accident! Mum-"

"Go to bed, Ronald."

"Fine!"

Molly watched her youngest boy stomp back to his bedroom. For once she was thankful for teenage temper tantrums. Hopefully he would have a good sulk and then go back to bed. She felt a little guilty for purposefully provoking her youngest son into a teenage snit but she didn't want her youngest boy to fret over something he couldn't do anything about. They were so young and they were dealing with too much as it was. As a mother she would fight tooth and nail to keep them from more pain. In her opinion they had taken on too much responsibility as it was.

To her aggravation, it took her longer than she expected to contact the Headmaster. From the sleepy expression he tried to hide, Molly guessed that Dumbledore had been asleep. She regretted pulling him from bed but it was an emergency.

"Molly, what is it my dear?" Dumbledore asked through the Floo.

"There's an emergency. I-I don't know what Hermione has done but she's in a bad way. Send Poppy through to us and you had better come as well."

"Calm down and explain this to me again."

"I was woken up by screams but they weren't Harry's. I found Hermione on the floor having some kind of seizure. Nothing I did seemed to help her. When it was over I checked on Harry. Albus, he's sleeping! Sleeping peacefully!" Molly cried.

"Are you certain that a mediwitch is needed? Poppy isn't one of the Order," Dumbledore cautioned.

"You know I'm no slouch with medimagic but nothing I've cast seems to help! This isn't some childhood ailment or prank!"

"Very well, I'll contact Poppy and Severus, then I'll be there myself," Albus replied with a worried frown.

Molly counted every minute until the headmaster flooed through with the others. Madam Pomfrey seemed a little disoriented but quickly regained control of herself, projecting the familiar competent professionalism that made Molly respect her so. Severus was scowling as usual but Molly recognized something almost pensive in his expression.

"Molly, where is young Miss Granger?" Dumbledore asked.

"Upstairs in Harry's room. I left her on the floor because I didn't want to disturb her. She finally stopped screaming and I didn't dare wake her."

"Severus, why don't you take Poppy to check on Miss Granger and Mr Potter?"

As with many of Dumbledore's requests, there was little room to argue. Molly watched as they left and then turned to face Dumbledore. He was clearly tired but was dressed and seemed more awake than he'd been when she flooed him. Molly was struck by how old he seemed. Dumbledore rarely looked his age but worry and the burdens of war were making their mark.

"Can you tell me exactly what happened, Molly?" Dumbledore asked.

"I've told you all I know. I woke up and found Hermione collapsed on the floor. I ran through a variety of medimagic and counter curses but nothing worked. Finally I just rocked her and she fell silent. It was as if she was so exhausted, her body just couldn't scream anymore."

"Was there anything else?" Dumbledore pressed.

"No. She's been acting a little strangely but I brushed it off. All the children have been having a hard time seeing Harry so miserable. I-I just thought..." Molly drifted off and then shook her head. "I should have noticed something was wrong, Albus! Hermione has been locked up in her room almost all the time. I should have known!"

"Don't blame yourself. Miss Granger has always been rather independent and studious. I didn't suspect anything, either. Come now, sit down while I check our Miss Granger's room."

Albus Dumbledore sat on the edge of the parchment strewn bed. He cradled his face with his hands and took a deep shuddering breath. All about him was evidence of what Miss Granger had been working on. Originally it had been neatly ordered and placed in clear view on the middle of the bed. He suspected that she had done this intentionally in case something had gone wrong. With all his heart Dumbledore wondered how he could have missed something of such magnitude going on right beneath his nose.

Time and time again he had heard from his staff just how determined and stubborn Hermione Granger was. Albus had been rather proud of the bushy haired muggleborn that had set pureblood preconceptions on their ear by simply existing. It had been a blessing from the gods that she was in Harry's year and then later became friends with him. Dumbledore had relied on her soft heart and level headedness to see Harry through his most difficult periods. She had never let him down until now.

The Dark Arts were an undeniable temptation for any intelligent and powerful witch or wizard. They had all the allure of the forbidden and they lived up to the promises of power... at a price. Invariably the Dark Arts hardened the heart and the proffered power corrupted. As a young man Albus had found his resolve not to delve into their mysteries tested severely at times. He had struggled but in the end he had prevailed. Others were not as resolute in their convictions and Albus had seen more than one promising individual destroyed by their curiosity. Tom Riddle was the perfect example. The boy had such talent and power but he had squandered it on his pride. Now Hermione Granger was following the same path. Dumbledore only hoped that it was not too late and she would be able to see very foolish her actions were.

Somehow the stubborn witch had broken into the Black Library. Albus sighed. He knew he should have done the wards himself but there had been so many far more important things to do at the time. As a result, Hermione had then spent a significant amount of time researching all the Dark Arts had to offer in regards to mind control and who knew what else. It was simple to guess what her intentions were. Dumbledore knew that she hated seeing Harry so tormented. In a way he wasn't surprised that she would go to such lengths to try and help him.

Her research might have ended up going nowhere except for one thing- the book lying so innocently beside him. Cold anger slowly replaced Dumbledore's disappointment. Severus had no place supplying the girl with texts on the dark arts and certainly not anything written by that madman Serid. He had trusted the dark Slytherin and Albus was greatly displeased to see his trust abused. He would deal with Severus later. Now he needed to see speak to Madam Pomfrey.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

For a long time Hermione drifted in and out of coherency. While she was hardly cognizant of the outside world, unconsciousness was a blessed oblivion she could barely conceive of let alone reach. Instead she was somehow stuck between waking and sleeping. No matter how she tried, nothing she did allowed her to escape the maelstrom that haunted her. Emotions raged through her without restraint. At first it had been too much all at once. Gradually the flood of emotion had slowed so that she could discern individual emotions from the mélange but try as she might she could not focus on them. Fragments of thought or memory also passed through her mind's eye. They appeared in no discernable order and vanished too quickly for her to comprehend. It made her feel as if she was chasing after puzzle pieces, desperately trying to make sense of the picture they were supposed to make.

Hermione had begun to think it would never end. She had been terrified that she would be trapped forever in sensations and emotions that were not her own, but slowly the maelstrom would recede and she almost feel like herself again. Sometimes she would crack her eyes open for a moment. When she did, she would be plied with potions and a soft voice would speak to her in encouraging tones. Strangely she had not understood what was being said. It was as if her mind was too exhausted to make sense of the words.

Eventually, those periods of awareness began to lengthen and the maelstrom retreated slightly by itself. It was far from gone but it no longer pushed itself to the forefront of her mind. Having been granted relative peace, Hermione opened her eyes.

"Miss Granger? Hermione?"

This time she could understand the words. That tiny miracle inspired her to focus on the person who spoke. The starched robes and wimple told her that without a doubt it was Madam Pomfrey addressing her.

"M'm Pm'fr?" Hermione mumbled clumsily around a painfully dry mouth.

"Here, child, drink this and then you can have some water."

Another potion was shoved under her nose and Hermione was too tired to argue. With Pomfrey's help she managed to sit up enough to drink the potion. She swallowed and wrinkled her nose. Whatever it was had been thick and foul tasting. The remnants clung to her tongue like a death shroud. The glass of water that was offered next was gratefully downed. When she had drunk it all, Hermione felt like begging for more.

"No more, I'm afraid. You've been living off of nutrient potions so we'll have to start you back on food and water slowly. Now you rest while I go find the Headmaster," Madam Pomfrey informed her gently, having easily read her face.

With a puzzled frown, Hermione watched the nurse leave the room. There was something that bothered her about what Madam Pomfrey had said but Hermione was having difficulty remembering what it was. She frowned harder as she tried to pull herself from the daze she was in. Hermione struggled to make her mind work. It was so hard to think with the raging tempest that lurked in the corners of her mind. Sudden realization hit and panic surged through her veins.

Harry! She'd used the spell on Harry! Weakly, Hermione thrashed against the blankets only succeeding in tangling herself further. Her limbs were clumsy and strangely unwieldy but she had to know if it worked! As if reacting to her distress, the storm in her mind surged forward. Hermione found herself sobbing and whimpering, completely overcome by the deluge of foreign emotion. Dumbledore found her that way, with her face red, eyes swollen and nose running. Had she felt a little more herself, Hermione would have been horribly embarrassed. The Headmaster did not say a word but instead kindly extended her a multi-colored handkerchief.

"Thankyousir," Hermione babbled, accepting the garish piece of cloth.

"You're welcome, Miss Granger. I suspect you know why I'm here?"

With effort, Hermione managed to push back the emotions she was sensing. It was very difficult not to lose herself in them but she succeeded. She shuddered at the intensity of what she had felt but she stiffened her resolve, focusing on the outward, rather than the inward. Dumbledore had asked her a question and if she were to answer it, she dared not think about what she'd experienced or she would lose herself in it again.

"Yes," Hermione managed to say clearly. "Please, first tell me if Harry is alright?"

"You will be glad to know that Harry is perfectly fine. For what it is worth you spell worked."

"I-I'm glad, sir, and I'm not sorry," Hermione stuttered with as much certainty and defiance she could muster.

"I had gathered that your friend's welfare was what sparked this ill-advised course of action. Miss Granger I must ask if you are feeling well enough to answer some questions," Dumbledore sighed.

"I am but h-how long have I been... indisposed?"

"You have been indisposed, as you say, for two weeks and three days. I was able to use legilimancy on you to ascertain that you were experiencing a great influx of emotion."

"Yes. I can still feel it but it's not as strong. If I focus on it, though..." Hermione said with a shiver, as she resisted the almost hypnotic power those strange emotions had.

"I suspect that it will be permanent," Dumbledore said with sober finality.

"But that's not what Harry-"

"No it isn't and that is why your spell was so foolish an enterprise!" Dumbledore replied with a vehemence that startled Hermione. "To dabble in the Dark Arts is to pave yourself a path to self-destruction, Miss Granger. I thought that you knew that but I see that you have been doing more than dabbling. Added to that stupidity you modify a spell that sent its creator mad and use it untested on someone without their consent. You are lucky neither of you were killed! Do I need to express my disappointment further?"

To her surprise, Hermione found herself not a bit cowed. Her own anger seemed to summon forth anger and rage from the lurking maelstrom. Her temples pounded with the force of it. She had saved his precious Wonder Boy! Dumbledore should be thanking her on bended knee! Her magic cracked in response to her emotion and Hermione was jolted out of her rage. Carefully she released her clenched fists. Her nails had made their imprint in her palms and she looked at the marks in desperation. Hermione felt nauseous. It shocked her at how easily she had almost lost control, allowing the foreign emotion to affect her so. In horror she looked up at Dumbledore. His eyes were deep pools of sorrow. Flinching, Hermione looked away.

"Am I going to be expelled?" Hermione asked dreading the answer.

"No. Your interest in the Dark Arts must cease and to that end, you will be closely monitored. Delving into such things only brings about the destruction of yourself and others. If you betray the trust we hold in you again, the consequences will be grave indeed."

"Yes, sir," Hermione mumbled, holding back tears of humiliation and rage.

"Oh Hermione, I regret I didn't notice what you were doing. The spell you created worked but it has manifested in a way I do not expect you intended. Can you tell me what you thought it would do?" Dumbledore lamented.

"It was supposed to do divert the subconscious end of Harry's connection with Voldemort into my mind. T-the connection it made in my mind should have mirrored Harry's exactly," Hermione replied, through clenched teeth.

"I have read over your research notes. It was a brilliant piece of work but you, like Serid, overlooked one small thing and that is that each person's mind is different. Despite anatomical similarities, each person interprets and analyzes stimuli differently. It is impossible to exactly reproduce the effects of madness due to these differences. A magical connection is even more complex because it also interacts with a witch or wizard's magic, which is also unique to the individual."

The simplicity of what Dumbledore was saying struck Hermione deeply. Even as angry and hurt as she was, by Dumbledore's previously patronizing comments, Hermione found herself cringing in embarrassment. She had done been so caught up in her solution she had been blinded to everything else. That she had missed something so elementary humbled her. Hermione raised shaky hands to wipe away the tears that had begun to flow again. Her emotions were painfully raw but she struggled for composure. She needed to be able to focus on what Dumbledore was telling her.

"What does this mean?" Hermione finally asked.

"Madam Pomfrey and myself have been monitoring you. We have also put you through several tests. From what we were able to ascertain, there does not seem to be any damage done to you or Harry by the spell. Nor does there seem to be any life-threatening consequences but as I'm sure you're aware there were consequences all the same."

"I feel like I'm about to be swept away by-by-," Hermione began and then found she wasn't sure how to explain.

"What you are feeling is from Voldemort."

"Yes. The intensity is just so unexpected!" Hermione cried.

"That is best explained by telling you what the spell has done," Dumbledore began. "The spell did transfer the unconscious part of the connection and for the most part it operates as it did with Harry. Unfortunately, it aggravated the connection. What Harry was experiencing was the slow and steady steep of Voldemort's subconscious into his. In effect the spell widened the connection. Think of Voldemort's subconscious as a bottle of butterbeer with a damaged cap. Harry, as I've said, was exposed to a slow contamination as the 'butterbeer' overflowed. Your spell diverted the flow, shook the bottle and then ripped the cap off entirely."

"Then that is why I was... overcome for so long. I regained consciousness when the pressure was equalized."

"Close enough, although I suspect that the pressure is far from equalized. Tom Riddle experienced a great deal of unpleasantness in his life and has nurtured the unrest in his soul."

"What you're saying sounds like Tom Riddle, Voldemort, was storing his emotions away," Hermione began. "Is that why it was so intense?"

"Partly. I don't think Tom Riddle intentionally stored away his emotions. Consider them the things he has forgotten or pushed aside. Don't forget that Voldemort still lives and I suspect he generates a great deal of rage and anger on a daily basis. It is my belief that you will not find the connection reducing much more than it has."

"Then I'll have to learn to live with it," Hermione said resignedly.

"Just so, Miss Granger. You will have to find your equilibrium now that you are dealing with new or perhaps more intense emotions."

What the Headmaster was suggesting seemed impossible. Hermione felt as if she was a leaf floating on the surface of a raging sea. Her grasp on self-control was tenuous at best. As for the emotions themselves, she shied away from analyzing its contents. Hermione didn't even know how to begin to make sense of it. There was a great deal of anger and rage, as the Headmaster had said, but the tempest promised far greater complexities.

The bleak picture her mind created scared her but she it also hardened her resolve. Hermione refused to be so defeatist in the face of adversity. That she was able to think as clearly as she was now, meant she could master this. Really, she should be thankful. Harry's reaction to the influx of Voldemort's subconscious was far more debilitating. She had gone into this expecting the worst. It was stupid to start having doubts now.

"Do you have any suggestions, sir? There are calming potions and other mood affecting potions but I'm not sure they would work- they didn't for Harry. They only work on the person taking them and it's Voldemort's emotions that are causing problems."

"You are correct again, as Madam Pomfrey already tried them. After we first arrived you became quite distressed. The potions stopped you from crying out but they did nothing to sooth your distress."

"What about meditation?"

"That is one possibility. We will have to see what works best."

To her disappointment, Dumbledore had no other solutions to offer. Even after everything, part of her had still hoped that he had all the answers. That the Headmaster seemed to be ready to write her off didn't matter. Having nothing more to say, the Headmaster had quickly excused himself after telling her that Harry, Ron and the others were not allowed to visit until she recovered more. Left to herself, Hermione felt the tempest loom ever larger in her mind. It wasn't that it was really growing. It was simply that she had nothing else to focus on.

Her eyes darted about her room only to find that her trunk, and all the books in it, had been confiscated. Hermione suspected that it was being inspected for Dark materials. She winced at the thought of what they would find. Tears of self-pity inched down her cheeks. She honestly doubted that her friends were being kept away just so she could recover. Dumbledore himself had said, what she was beginning to call the tempest, wouldn't fade further. If the others were being kept away it was because she was 'contaminated', or needed to be punished.

The sacrifices she'd made and all the hard work that she had done, were barely even acknowledged. Maybe Hermione wasn't expecting them to nominate her for the Order of Merlin, but some sign of gratefulness would have been welcome. Dumbledore had simply scolded her as if she was an ignorant child without any concept of what she had done. Hermione wasn't a fool. She knew the risks of studying the Dark and she knew the risks of the spell she had created. That was apparent from her research that she knew Dumbledore must have seen. How could Dumbledore think she didn't understand after he read that? He was right that not having Harry's permission was deeply unethical but Harry was in no state to give it. Besides, from her notebook Dumbledore should know that the caster took the biggest risks. Hermione had made sure of that.

Hermione sniffled a little into her pillow. Her silent tears might have developed into full-fledged sobs but she was just too exhausted. Slowly she fell into sleep. For a time her dreamscape was pleasantly empty. She drifted, reveling in the long awaited nothingness for a time. Then at the very edges of the consciousness something pulled at her awareness. Thin and reedy the squall of an infant sounded.

It seemed to echo and reverberate through her mind. Shuddering and wretched, the cries pulled at her with an urgency she didn't quite understand. Around her, hallways and passages, doorways and arches formed from nothingness. Sweat dripped from her as she ran and ran and ran. Frantically she tried to find the source of those cries but not matter how fast she ran or how hard she searched, it eluded her. The miserable, wavering appeal drowned out everything but the primal response to an infant in distress.

The sharp sting of a blow to her face, jolted Hermione to wakefulness. Gray, featureless passages vanished and three looming forms resolved before her eyes. Adrenaline pumped through her veins in great surges. Her ears heard nothing but her pulse and the memory of weeping. Blankets were tangled and sodden around her limbs and Hermione fought them, only knowing that they were stopping her from reaching her goal.

"Miss Granger. Miss Granger!"

The stern voice was familiar but Hermione disregarded it. She needed to get up! Her whole body strained with that need. Even now she could hear the cries. Unable to free herself, she screamed her frustration.

"Let me go! I have to find him! Please!"

"Miss Granger- Hermione, focus on me. Look at me, Hermione."

The new voice soothed and coaxed and despite herself Hermione found her eyes wandering in the direction of the voice. Blue eyes that radiated wisdom and comfort met hers. Everything seemed to go silent. The persistent wailing of an infant died down and finally vanished. Hermione whimpered and stopped her struggles. The bright eyes blinked and looked away. Hermione shuddered as she came back to herself.

"I-I'm sorry," Hermione cried.

"It's alright, child. I imagine what you dreamed was very powerful indeed," Dumbledore replied gently.

"What did you see, Hermione?" McGonagall asked finally.

"It wasn't what I saw," Hermione said in misery. "It was what I heard. It was a child, a baby, crying. He was so lonely and c-cold. I had to find him and I tried! I really did, please believe me, but I just couldn't find him!"

"I'm afraid that baby is long gone. Over sixty years gone. There was nothing you could do," Dumbledore sighed and Hermione flinched.

"Enough questions, I need to check Miss Granger," Poppy Pomfrey said, bustling forward.

Hermione sat silent and unseeing as the mediwitch waved her wand. The sounds of the boy's cries were gone but the feelings that accompanied them lingered. Hermione had not only heard the infant's desperate pleas but felt everything behind them. She had felt the discomfort of blankets too thin for a cold English winter and the horrible hunger for simple touch. It was not the remote empathy felt for someone else's tragedy but rather it was as immediate and gut wrenching, as if she had experienced it herself. Perhaps worst of all was the profound knowledge that that not matter how pathetic or persistent the cries, no help or comfort was forthcoming. The crying child had learnt that long ago.

To Hermione who had two doting parents and multiple loving relatives, that was both disturbing and almost incomprehensible. Just thinking about it made her shiver in horror.

"There," Poppy said as she tucked her wand away. "It seems you're in as good health as we can expect. No harm done. I'll go rustle you up some soup and after that we'll see about a bath."

Dully, Hermione nodded.

"I assume you are aware there isn't much we can do for you," Dumbledore spoke into the heavy silence.

"Yes, sir."

"All I can suggest is that you remember that the dreams are not real. They may be based on things that happened once but that was long ago," Dumbledore said with regret. "I will organize lessons in meditation and mental discipline with Professor Snape. It seems that unlike Harry, you and the Professor work quite well together."

To this, Hermione flinched. She had almost forgotten that Dumbledore would know that Professor Snape had helped her. Without a doubt Snape would be cross at her for leaving evidence of their collaboration out for Dumbledore to find. Her motives for leaving it out hadn't been betrayal. Rather, she had only wanted to ensure if something had gone terribly wrong, then the Order would have some idea of how to help. Hermione knew that would not do much to avert the Potion Master's temper. She supposed that this too was part of her punishment.

"Miss Granger, is there anything we can do for you?" McGonagall asked, her eyes worried.

"No- I mean yes. Could I have some of the books from my trunk?"

"I'm not so certain that's advisable," Dumbledore cut in with a frown.

"Not the magical books, sir. I meant the muggle books," Hermione replied, forcing herself no to flinch at the censor in the Headmaster's voice.

"Perhaps that we could do. Might I ask why you would want them?"

"There is information about dreams in them. I'd originally bought them because of Harry's nightmares. Not the nightmares because of the connection, but his dreams about Sirius and the Third Task."

Dumbledore's somewhat condescending smile made Hermione's fists clench but she said nothing. He seemed to think the books were nothing more than a child's security blanket. Hermione felt her pride for her muggle heritage prickle but she said nothing. She would admit readily that books were her touchstone, but she would not dismiss knowledge simply because of the source. She couldn't afford to, not when the others had no advice to give, or, as she was beginning to suspect, chose not to offer it.


End file.
